


Ancel’s Annotated Pillow Talk: An Exercise In Authenticity

by aldiara



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bring Back The Porn Challenge, Canon Compliant, Hair Kink, Humor, Kissing, Long Hair, M/M, Missing Scene, Post-Canon, Prostitution, Redheads Have More Fun, Relationship Negotiation, Truth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-01
Updated: 2018-09-01
Packaged: 2019-07-05 10:44:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15862038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aldiara/pseuds/aldiara
Summary: “Tell me what you would have said, as a pet,” asked Berenger, “and then tell me the truth. We’ll split the difference.”Communication is key. A coda to the"Pet"short story.





	Ancel’s Annotated Pillow Talk: An Exercise In Authenticity

**Author's Note:**

> This work contains references to canonical (consensual) prostitution. Huge thanks to Alsha for beta-ing!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Berenger let Ancel unlace his jacket and pull it off, which was a marked improvement. Ancel discreetly kicked it near the low-banked fireplace. It wasn’t easy, because Berenger was watching him, which was, for some reason, distracting.

Berenger caught Ancel’s wrists when his hands moved to his shirt laces. “Wait.”

Ancel sighed elaborately. “What now?”

“I have a condition.”

Ancel blinked at him. “You have a condition? For getting to fuck me?” You’d think he was paying Berenger, not the other way around. He huffed. “If it involves reading poetry, I’m going to go right now and fuck the Regent. Or Prince Torveld. Or a fucking horse.”

Berenger looked bemused, and for a second real horror gripped Ancel. What if he was actually right? What if that was what Berenger truly liked: bloodless poetry instead of sex? Reading Isagoras while Ancel was supposed to sprawl demurely on the sheets and soak in verses about stupid white cliffs and lovers so inanely devoted that they thought a single flower made a decent gift? What if-

But Berenger’s expression had shifted into amusement, and his hands around Ancel’s wrists were warm and firm.

“Not poetry, exactly, but-”

Ancel groaned.

“…if we continue this” – Berenger waved to indicate the chambers and, presumably, the whole of court – “I want you to learn to read.”

Ancel groaned louder. “Why?”

Berenger looked at him as if he’d asked why he should learn to breathe. “Because you’ll need it.”

“What for? I don’t need to read your boring books. I looked at the illustrations.”

Berenger’s mouth twitched. Ancel couldn’t quite tell whether it was with pain or entertainment. “It’s not about that. You can move more freely about court than I can, talk to people I can’t reach. Even now the Regent is making alliances, throwing out fishing lines, playing his long game. I think the Prince has more subtlety than him, and deeper-laid plans, but he has fewer allies, and – you never know. There are messages that might fall into a pet’s hands, letters I might need you to steal a glance at. Words are power, Ancel.” He hesitated. “And you’ll need it for yourself, too. Do you even know what’s in your contract?”

Ancel shrugged, although he supposed he could see the sense of it. “More or less. I had a scribe read it to me before I signed.”

Berenger shook his head. “A document that dictates the terms of your existence is something that should be within your own power to peruse. You shouldn’t depend on-”

“Fine,” interrupted Ancel, who could tell that Berenger was working up to a dull lecture. “But won’t it be suspicious if you hire some tutor to teach your pet to read, now of all times?”

“I shouldn’t worry about that. I’ll teach you myself.”

Ancel stared at him, confused. “You? Don’t you have… I mean, where will you find the time?”

Berenger shook his head, dismissive. “Oh, it won’t take long. You’ll pick it up quickly. You’re smart.”

That was an odd thing to be complimented on, with rich silks half-slipping off his shoulder and his hands on Berenger’s laces. And it wasn’t said like a compliment, either; Berenger had said it matter-of-factly, like there was no question about it, and no measure of flattery attached. Ancel didn’t know what to do with that.

“Fine,” he said again, then took a step closer, so his chest brushed Berenger’s. “I’m other things, as well. Tell me more about those.”

Berenger’s room was dark, but Ancel’s was still lit. He steered Berenger backwards, through silk curtains into soft glowing light. He thought Berenger might have protested, or turned to extinguish the bedside lamp for more decorum, but he didn’t. He was watching Ancel, and his hands rose from his wrists to his hair, running long strands of it idly through his fingers.

“You have the most amazing hair. Like-”

“Yes?”

“Like flame.”

Ancel sighed, tugging at Berenger’s shirt. “How original. You’re terrible at this.”

Berenger snorted. “I meant-”

“What’s next, are my eyes like emeralds? My skin like china? I thought you liked poetry.”

“And I thought you didn’t,” said Berenger, but he was still caressing Ancel’s hair, in a way he’d never done before, with measured intent. “Alright. Not flame. More like… a sunset. The final moments of it, when the sky turns so dark a red it looks like silk dipped in crimson.”

“Hm,” commented Ancel. “Better.”

“Thank you,” Berenger retorted dryly. Ancel had finally unpicked the wrist laces too, and Berenger let him pull the shirt over his head. Ancel had seen him bare-chested before, but for practical purposes only, not like this. There was a smattering of hair, with a narrow trail of it disappearing below his beltline, and a lot of lean muscle. His dark hair was slightly mussed from the passage of the shirt. His eyes were dark, intent, and very close. Ancel was not used to seeing him anything other than in perfect control of his appearance. The image of Berenger like this, soft-mouthed, half-naked, unselfconsciously expectant, threw him.

Ancel sought his composure in well-established patterns. He tilted his head slightly, for better access, and half lowered his lashes, lips dropping softly open. He swayed forward ever so slightly, making of himself an artful, gold-limned illustration: _Young man by candlelight, waiting to be kissed_.

But Berenger didn’t kiss him. Instead he watched, his brows crinkled in some convoluted and probably wholly unnecessary concern.

Ancel sighed, and pulled back. “What now?” He felt flushed, and slightly affronted. Berenger’s hands had dropped from his hair onto his shoulders, and Ancel was very aware of the warm weight of them there. Berenger’s palms curved around the apples of his shoulders, and Berenger’s thumbs rested on his collar bones, where the skin was thin and highly sensitive. He shouldn’t be the one to feel confused, or nervous.

Berenger cleared his throat. “There’s something I want.”

 _Finally_. “Tell me,” Ancel said immediately. “I’ll do it. I’ll do anything. I’m really good at most things.”

Berenger exhaled, a deep warm breath that fanned across Ancel’s face. “I know. That’s not what I mean. Ancel, I know the way you’re used to doing this. I don’t… I mean – I want you to-”

He struggled for words, which was unusual for him; but Ancel already knew where this was heading. He interrupted. “You want me to do it like you’re not paying me for it.”

Berenger’s frown deepened. “That’s not-”

“But you _are_ paying me. Do you want me to pretend you’re not?”

Berenger’s brows drew closer still, his mouth puckering unhappily. “I don’t want you to pretend at all.”

“I’m not sure I know how to do that,” Ancel pointed out with what he thought was really rather admirable patience. “I’m a pet. This is what I do.”

“I know,” Berenger said. “I don’t want you to pretend to be what you’re not, either.”

At this rate, thought Ancel, they’d never get anywhere. “So what _do_ you want?”

There was a long pause, while Berenger gathered his thoughts.

“Tell me what you would have said, as a pet,” asked Berenger, at last, “and then tell me the truth. We’ll split the difference.”

Ancel wasn’t sure what that meant. “You mean-”

“What would you have said, just now, when I said I didn’t want you to pretend?”

Ancel didn’t even have to think about it. “ _I don’t need to pretend, mylord_ ,” he murmured silkily, leaning in. 

Unexpectedly, Berenger gave him a wry smile. “Exactly. So tell me that. And then…”

“And then?”

Berenger seemed to be searching for words, again, though when he found them, they were simple enough. “Then tell me the truth. Whatever it is. _Are_ you pretending?”

Ancel frowned. It seemed too ruminative a game for bed play, especially when there were better things he could be using his mouth for. 

“Some?” he said, trying to tease out the layers of it. “Less than usual,” he added quickly, because it _was_ true – he was breathing hard, and there was a frustrated knot of desire inside him, making it hard to think. He was aware, on some level, that this would also be what he would say if he _was_ pretending, to a lover so tediously obsessed with the trappings of veracity. But there he gave up following the thread, because it got too tangled, truth and pretend all twisted up together.

Berenger, strange creature that he was, seemed content enough with that. “Alright.” His hands were moving on Ancel’s shoulders, fingers sliding restlessly over his skin. Ancel was conscious of their nearness to his nipples, which were hardening in anticipation of touch, separated from Berenger’s warm skin only by a flimsy layer of silk. Berenger’s eyes dropped, and Ancel knew he had noticed, too. The warm flame of triumph from earlier rekindled.

He tilted his head again, watching Berenger watch his mouth. “Alright,” he echoed, and then asked, in a throaty whisper, “How do you want me?”

Guessing from the small frown, it was probably another wrong thing to have said, another thing too artful for Berenger’s absurd notions. Ancel exhaled hard, too vexed with these tiny signs to ignore them. If the man wanted honesty from a whore, well, Ancel had been giving him nothing else for weeks. Months. _Then tell me the truth_. “This is how I fuck,” he blurted, a trifle sharply. He put his hands on Berenger’s bare chest, and spread his fingers, noting the small twitch of reaction with grim satisfaction. “I ask how you want it. I know you want me to tell you the way _I_ want it, and for it to be real in some stupid profound way, but right now what I want is to know _your_ desires, because that makes it easier for me, and because I enjoy showing you how well I can do it. So unless you want us to stand here and play these inane word games all night long, you’re going to have to say something, or do something, because-”

Berenger leaned in and kissed him. It was like the time they’d kissed at court, and it was not at all. That time had been for the benefit of others, and this wasn’t. Berenger kissed him deeply, with a banked urgency that made Ancel slightly dizzy. He went with it, leaning in, winding his arms around Berenger’s neck. He opened his mouth, inviting the kiss to deepen. Berenger took his mouth, sucked on his tongue, and Ancel moaned. 

They were pressed front to front. He was hard, and he knew Berenger could feel it. He was relieved. It didn’t always happen, because most of the time it didn’t matter whether he reached a climax or not. He’d spent his year with Louans almost forgetting how to come. It would have been awkward if now that he did want to get hard, he couldn’t. 

Berenger was hard too. Ancel could feel it pressing through the fabric of Berenger’s tight-laced trousers, and pressed back. Berenger made a noise, and broke the kiss. They were both breathing raggedly. 

Berenger stared at him. “You want me,” he murmured, in a weirdly wondering, hesitant tone, like he had not been sure. It was asinine for him to need reassurance, but then he seemed bizarrely invested in Ancel’s participation. As if the evidence was not enough.

“I’ve wanted you since forever,” breathed Ancel, because that was the pet thing to say. At Berenger’s amusedly cocked brow, he grinned, and amended, “I’ve wanted you since-” He wasn’t sure, he realised. The truth was annoyingly elusive. He’d started learning, months ago, what he thought of as Berenger’s preferences. Then he had moved from there to a more complicated realisation: that Berenger liked to make things difficult by not merely wanting his own lust met, but wanting, puzzlingly, to know that his desires lay aligned with his partner’s. As if the needs of another, plainly put, were more important than his own, and more of an erotic lure.

Too much to think, and double-think, about. Ancel said, breathing hard, “I want you now,” because that much was definitely true. He took Berenger’s hand, and pulled it to his crotch. He sighed when he felt the heat of Berenger’s fingers through his silks, and when Berenger moved his hand and closed it around his cock, he let his head drop back, his eyes drop closed, and his lips drop open, with a pretty moan. Watching from below his lashes, he knew exactly how he looked and sounded, and half expected Berenger to challenge him on the performance of it, but Berenger didn’t. He only watched, his dark eyes hot on Ancel’s face, and it occurred to Ancel that he’d get a better show from a different angle. He had his hands on Berenger’s shoulders still, and he neatly manoeuvred them the three steps to the bed that allowed him to push Berenger back and down. Berenger sat abruptly, the edge of the bed catching him behind the knees. He looked up at Ancel, and Ancel preened, rolling his shoulders so the silk robe gave up its flimsy hold and dropped to his hips, where it was held by a bejewelled belt.

From his new vantage point, Berenger looked up at him. He hadn’t lost his grip. The gathered silk slid over Ancel’s sensitised flesh, a maddening, gossamer barrier between him and Berenger’s warm hand. The silk was gauzy, easy enough to pull up or push aside, but Berenger didn’t. He merely stroked him like that, slowly, as if there were no urgency at all. 

With his hands on Berenger’s shoulders, Ancel leaned forward, letting Berenger’s solid frame take his weight. His loose hair fell around their faces. He watched the motion of Berenger’s throat as he swallowed. He grinned.

“Do you want to fuck me?” he murmured, voice dropping low, then remembered, when Berenger merely watched him closely, that everything he said was currently on that awkward scale of truth-or-pretend. He reconsidered the question in that light, as much as he was able to consider anything, with skin-warmed silk moving slowly, tantalisingly between his legs.

“I want you to,” he said instead, but that was not quite right either. He bit his lip. He tried to picture it honestly – Berenger holding his hips, pressing in slowly, probably kissing him while he did it, the hot slow throb of his cock inside him while he plundered Ancel’s mouth – and a warm rush of anticipation took him by surprise. _Then tell me the truth._ “I think I want you to,” he said, slightly breathless, and circled his hips restlessly.

Berenger’s head had dropped down, so Ancel could no longer see his face. He kept moving his hand, but didn’t speak. The pause annoyed Ancel. He dug his fingernails into Berenger’s shoulders. 

“It’s not fair if I’m the only one who has to figure out what’s real and what isn’t,” he complained. “If it makes you feel better, if you want to do something I don’t like, I’ll tell you. If I know it’s something I don’t like, that is. I think-”

More convoluted layers. He exhaled impatiently. “Can’t we just-”

Berenger’s head came up, and his eyes found Ancel’s. It was hard to tell in the dim light, but his face looked flushed. “I do want to fuck you,” he admitted, conflictedly, as if it cost him anything, the idiot. Ancel opened his mouth but Berenger wasn’t done. The words came out in a pulsing rush, like unexpected climax. “But first, I want to kiss you. I want to touch you all over. I want your hair wrapped around my cock, and I want to suck you and have you suck me at the same time. I want to see what you look like when you come. I want to watch you spill, and then get you hard again, so I can see it again. I want to fuck you,” he repeated, sounding pained. “I want you to want me to fuck you. Ancel. You’re destroying me.”

Ancel felt as if something had drawn the air out of the room, as if he were breathing fire. He swallowed, with some difficulty. “Well,” he managed finally, with some asperity, “ _now_ we’re getting somewhere.” He straddled Berenger’s lap, his thighs snug on either side of Berenger’s hips, and bent to kiss him again. Berenger shifted his hands to Ancel’s hips to support him, which was a regrettable loss for his cock, but he’d remedy that shortly. 

The angle allowed him to control the kiss, which he found he liked. Somewhat to his surprise, Berenger did not try to dominate. He let Ancel have his mouth, and Ancel proceeded to demonstrate every kissing skill he’d ever learned. It didn’t matter that there was no audience. It felt good, to hold Berenger in place, sucking his lips and teasing him with his tongue. It felt good to show his skill, that he was putting on his best performance. His hair was all around them, a dark red curtain, and once he realised how Berenger responded to the slide of it against his skin, Ancel used it, shifting the kiss to pull the silky strands over Berenger’s shoulders, his bare chest. He felt giddy with triumph when he felt Berenger’s nipples harden against the silky caress, heard Berenger make an aroused sound deep in his throat. It seemed ridiculous that all these months the man had harboured what was clearly a fascination with Ancel’s hair and never once acted on it. What a complete self-flagellating fool.

 _I want your hair wrapped around my cock._  
  
He tore his lips away and writhed his way down Berenger’s torso, following the lines of his muscles, his heaving chest. He took advantage of the brief moment of freedom and loosened his belt enough to shimmy all the way out of his silk robe. Berenger did not stop him when Ancel undid his trousers. Ancel dipped his head to let his hair drag against Berenger’s bared thighs, before he’d even taken a proper look. 

Above him, Berenger gasped, a deep-throated, genuine noise of agony, as Ancel caught his hair up in his hands, letting the thick mass of it pool over Berenger’s erection. Ancel smiled slightly, and teased the red length over strained flesh. Finally, he drew back, sitting on his haunches between Berenger’s spread thighs. He tugged the trousers down Berenger’s well-muscled calves, then made quick work of his boots so he could have him naked. Leaning forward again, he slid his hair gently against the insides of Berenger’s thighs, his gaze on Berenger’s exposed cock.

Ancel thought of something, then thought better of it, but something must have shown on his face, because a quick look upwards showed him Berenger had been watching. Berenger tilted his head at him questioningly, his fists clenching in the sheets. “What?” he demanded.

“Nothing.” Ancel tried to contain a malicious cackle, and failed abysmally. He put his hands on Berenger’s knees and shuffled closer between his thighs. 

Berenger’s brows knit in a frown, although his mouth was smiling. “ _What_?”

It was the uncertainty of his smile, good-natured but half-wary, that undid him. Ancel couldn’t help himself. He widened his eyes deliberately and licked his lips, a shocked display of delighted, debauched innocence. “It’s the biggest I’ve ever seen!” 

Berenger stared at him for a moment. Then he threw back his head and laughed, a full-belly, unabashed guffaw. “You wretched liar. You sucked the Akielon’s monster cock just yesterday.”

Ancel fluttered his lashes. “What Akielon? Who? This is simply _enormous_.”

They were both laughing still when Ancel leaned in to wrap his lips around the head. At his touch, Berenger’s laugh stuttered away into a moan. Ancel teased him leisurely, still grinning, learning the shape of Berenger’s desire. In truth, it wasn’t near the size of the Akielon’s, but Ancel’s jaw was grateful for that. It was a pleasing proportion for all that, average-sized but neatly made, and fitting comfortably inside his mouth. He used his tongue and lips, and quickly figured out which spots got the best responses. Flickering licks against the thick vein on the underside, and flat-tongued suckling on the head, with one hand cupped warmly around a pair of tight, plump, hot-skinned balls. He bobbed for long minutes, enjoying the tensing of Berenger’s thighs beneath his hands, the sounds Berenger was unsuccessful in suppressing. He’d just started to tighten his lips and go for a hard, firm suck to finish it when Berenger’s hands came down on his shoulders, pulling him up.

“Ancel. Wait. Come here.”

He followed slowly, slightly aggrieved at having his focus shifted when he’d been so close to success. But he’d forgotten Berenger’s odd notions about reciprocity. He found himself manoeuvred on his side along the bed, confused for just a second when Berenger turned around, lying alongside him but facing the other way, towards Ancel’s thighs. Then there was a touch on his hip and the brush of fingers on his cock, and he remembered. 

_I want to suck you and have you suck me at the same time._  
  
_Oh,_ he thought, his perception strangely diffused, at the sensation of a wet tongue on his cock. For a second, it was all tangled up, the taste of Berenger’s cock on his tongue, his memories of being on his knees in the pleasure gardens, and then that tongue circled the head of his cock and Ancel’s brain went hazy, liquefied with pleasure. 

“Oh,” he breathed, and finally realised his face was pressed against Berenger’s thighs, and Berenger’s cock was bobbing just in front of him, swollen with need, the slit slightly distended and his hips thrusting desperately into empty air.

Ancel leaned forward, closed his eyes and opened his mouth. 

For an indeterminate time, sensations bled into each other. Having his cock sucked while sucking another’s. The rising, sharp pleasure of it, as if he were tending to himself. He moaned against the sensitive flesh inside his mouth, and felt the same vibrations on his own.

He pulled back once, to gasp, half-laughing, “I’ve never done this before,” heard Berenger’s fond exposure of his lie, and hadn’t the breath to affirm it wasn’t far off the truth. At some point, between the moment when Berenger had first touched him and now, it had become an effort to remember what he’d do if he were pretending. 

He remembered, too, that Berenger had wanted to see him spill, and realised from the harsh pulling at his cock that Berenger did mean to see it through, but Ancel prided himself on his stamina. After all, if Berenger wanted him to have a real say in this, Ancel would call the shots on when he came, and he wanted to make it last.

So he pulled away, ignoring Berenger’s protest, and instead tugged him over on his back, straddling his hips.

“Not yet,” he whispered, and let Berenger surge up and kiss him, the taste of their cocks mingling on their tongues. Berenger seemed to enjoy it. He drew it out, sucking on Ancel’s tongue, his hands splayed warm and hard on Ancel’s buttocks.

Ancel broke the kiss and demanded, “I want your cock in me.”

It was absolutely the thing he would have said – _had_ said, any number of times – as a pet, but his mind was wiped clear of alternatives that might be more deceptive _or_ more truthful. When Berenger’s dark gaze met his, lustful but still controlled, still inquisitive, still not quite trusting him, Ancel rolled his shoulders, annoyed, and tossed his hair. “Stop trying to read me,” he hissed at Berenger. “I’m not a fucking book. I said, I want your cock in me.”

Berenger’s mouth quirked, though his eyes stayed serious. He stole another kiss, messy and intimate, off Ancel’s lips. “Then put it in you,” he challenged, simply.

Ancel, who had expected to be tumbled onto his hands and knees, or at the very least his back, hesitated for a moment. It was disorienting to be on top. 

He felt his lips lift in a wicked smile. “I’ve never done it like this before.”

Berenger’s eyebrows rose, sceptical, and Ancel swatted him lightly on the shoulder. “Stop that, you ass. It’s true.”

But when Berenger’s eyes softened, his hands rising to offer assistance, or direction, Ancel sneered. “Oh, get over yourself. It’s hardly any different.”

One of Berenger’s great benefits, Ancel had quickly learned, was that it seemed to take a lot to make him take offence. At Ancel’s snap, he merely dropped his proffered hands in an exaggerated demonstration of surrender and lay back, his show of pliancy only belied by the strained tautness of his cock.

“By all means,” he said dryly, “help yourself.” He did not pretend to be unaffected. He bit his lower lip as he watched Ancel reach for the bottle of scented oil he kept on hand. He arched his back slightly, displaying his own state of urgency; but he watched patiently, his dark gaze half-lidded, as Ancel prepared himself. He didn’t offer assistance again, as if he sensed that Ancel would not welcome it. In truth, Ancel was well used to the impersonal touch of servants performing this chore for him, more than to the touch of his own fingers; the thought of letting a prospective lover do it was strange, as if he was a cook making the patrons chop their own vegetables.

When it was done, he moved to position himself, caught up for a moment in mechanical routines, in the rhythm of a task so familiar and frequent it was not overly exciting. But then Berenger raised himself up on one elbow, placing his other hand on Ancel’s hip to stop his motion, and met his eyes.

“Ancel. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” he retorted, annoyed; then caught himself, sighed, and took a deep breath, then another. “You throw me off,” he grumped at Berenger, suddenly feeling awkward and splay-legged, above Berenger’s thighs. “I don’t usually have to think about it.” He breathed, looked down at Berenger’s dark, concerned eyes, and fought the impulse to sneer or taunt. 

“I’m fine. Let me just…” He dropped his gaze. Berenger’s cock pointed straight up, swollen and red with need. Ancel licked his lips, remembering the sensation of sucking on it, and being sucked at the same time. He inhaled, deeply and shakily, registering the uneasy lust inside his groin. Berenger and his stupid notions of truth. He pushed through the discomfort and sat up, putting his hands on Berenger’s shoulders for support.

“Are you going to make me do all the work?”

He noted, with some gratification, the erratic flicker of the pulse at Berenger’s throat, the convulsive motion as he swallowed. “What do you want me to do?”

Ancel barely refrained from rolling his eyes. “Well, you might fuck me,” he said, and breached himself on Berenger’s cock. 

If the position was new, the principles of it were not, of course. He dug his fingers into Berenger’s shoulders, took his cock to the hilt in one smooth movement, then rose back up, enjoying the sensation of control. He remembered the endless dull agony of riding lessons, and finally appreciated how they might come in useful. Berenger was hard, warm, and eager beneath him, but Ancel was the one who held the reins. He tensed his thighs and rode, a sweet, hard gallop, tossing his head back so his hair would whip across Berenger’s thighs. Berenger was inside him, hot and steady, and Ancel let him anchor him, let him take the impact as he slammed up and down, teasing Berenger with softly whispered, filthy commands.

He knew precisely what he looked like: wanton, wild, wanting it, luxuriating in each long, downward stroke. Berenger was watching him with glazed eyes, lips half-parted, and Ancel gloried in it, grinning, making a spectacle of himself.

He remembered the way he’d pictured this before, when they’d shared that performance of a kiss. The plotting of it seemed funny now, because of what Berenger had asked him to say. He leaned down to whisper in Berenger’s ear, “ _It’s never felt this way before_ ,” exaggerating it the way he wouldn’t have, if he had truly had to play it. There was a strange freedom in it he hadn’t quite realised before, in the knowledge that he could say exactly what he thought, and Berenger would like it that he did. But then, Berenger had always wanted him to be himself, even if Ancel didn’t quite know who that was.

Berenger’s warm dark gaze found his, glowing with appreciation as if at a shared joke. 

“Liar,” he said, his voice a rasping, desperate caress, and Ancel grinned. 

“I think it might be true, actually.” He rolled his hips and squeezed, making them both moan. “You’re… surprisingly… good at this.”

Berenger’s fingers dug into his hips. His mouth hung open, harsh gasps coming from his throat. He was still letting Ancel control the pace, but he was thrusting up now, harder than before, as if he couldn’t help himself.

“Ancel…”

Ancel pushed back and rode him hard, directing the throbbing cock inside him to press just where it sent white-hot licks of pleasure through him. “I’m going to come,” he told Berenger, breathlessly. “Fuck me. Don’t stop. Right there. Fuck me, fuck me, oh, fuck me.” Berenger grabbed his neck and captured his lips in a kiss, open-mouthed and demanding. He reached for Ancel’s cock, and Ancel cried out into his mouth as he jerked and came, emptying himself all over Berenger’s hand and chest. It seemed to go on forever, a sweet rolling ache from deep inside him, urging him on and on. He was aware of moving still, his body riding out the wave, and Berenger pulled back and gasped his name as he convulsed in turn. Ancel held on, his arms wrapped tightly about Berenger’s neck, while he felt the hot, wet pulses starting inside him and spreading out, filling him to the brim.

He was still milking Berenger’s cock long after he was done, a slow, steady clench, rolling his hips through the sweet aftershocks. Berenger groaned against the side of his neck and flopped backwards, pulling Ancel with him. Too lazy and sated to deal with the practicalities of aftermath, Ancel let him slide out, uncaring about the slick, warm ooze of come against his thighs as his inner muscles relaxed. The servants would change the sheets tomorrow. 

Berenger rolled against him with a hoarse murmur of contentment. He slung an arm over Ancel’s hips, and Ancel allowed himself the luxury of half-dozing, for half an hour or so. It felt weirdly nice, having Berenger’s warm weight against his back. He wondered briefly if the rules still applied, if he was obliged to say what he’d have said, under normal circumstances. Something pointless and flattering, like, _You were amazing._ But Berenger’s lips were slack against his nape, and Ancel thought he didn’t expect, at this point, any pretences or revelations. Which was a good thing, because Ancel was all out of thoughts, and also bones.

He counted, slow but steady, the heartbeats that passed. He was just about to poke at Berenger when Berenger of his own accord lifted his head, with some effort, and sniffed.

“What is that smell?”

“Your jacket. Looks like it landed in the fireplace. Oops.”

Berenger lifted up on one elbow to stare at him. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, then sighed. “You do know I have several of those.”

“Mhm.” Ancel gathered up his hair and spread it behind his head so it wouldn’t get tangled while he slept. He stretched his limbs, cat-like and luxuriant. “One thing at a time.”

Berenger’s mouth twitched. He dropped back down at last, fitting himself closely against the curve of Ancel’s body. “I will not have you replacing my jackets with your silks and frippery.”

Ancel suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. “You can keep your dull cuts. Just try a blue. I dare you.”

“Fine.” Berenger sounded drowsy, like he would have agreed to anything just then. Ancel almost regretted having to nudge him with his elbow. 

“You should go back to your own bed.”

He felt Berenger’s face lift against his neck, his body tensing. “What? Why?”

Ancel did roll his eyes at that. “Because you fucked me, so now we’re done?”

He grabbed for Berenger’s stiffening hand, and pulled the fingers to his lips in a lazy caress. “Stop that. You’re such a suspicious bastard.”

Tense-lipped, Berenger said, “Then what?”

Ancel blinked up at him and sighed at the worried expression. “You fool. Think. The servants need to believe – and gossip – that we’re still at odds. That I’m annoyed with you, and looking for better prospects. Perhaps even that I fucked someone else in this bed, when they change the sheets. If everyone thinks I’m looking for ways out of this contract, they’ll give me glimpses I might otherwise not get. Documents. Messages. A whisper here, a murmur there. You know.” He flapped a hand. “You’d better teach me reading quickly. Because if we’re throwing in our lot with the frigid Prince of Vere, I don’t intend for him to lose.”

Berenger watched him, for a long time, without speaking. At least, he let out a long-held breath of air, a huff half-laughter, half-exasperation. “Alright. You’re right, of course. You are smart.”

“I know I am,” Ancel murmured, exasperated, and then again, because it was the truth, “I know I’m smart.” He drifted off to sleep.


End file.
